“That was more than two things.” She draws a circle on my thigh while avoiding eye contact with me.

I place my fingers under her chin and lift her face until her eyes look into mine. “Yeah, because I wanted you to know I’ve never truly stopped thinking about you. Even though I might look like I’m happy from the outside, a part of me is not. I’m lonely. That’s where you come in.”

“Well.” She smacks her lips together. “Seems as though you’ve also done some flexing since we’ve last seen each other because you sure as hell know how to say the right thing.”

* * *

Myla twirls the gift card through her fingers while smiling at me. “Go ahead . . . say it.”

Rolling my eyes, I set my third beer down—I know I said I’d only have one beer, but that changed quickly once Myla took off her sweater, leaving her in a low-cut tank top. Not to mention her ability to get me to focus on something other than baseball—my comfort zone. “You’re not going to let me ever live this down, are you?”

She shakes her head. “Never.”

Letting out a long, drawn-out sigh, I say, “Myla, you are easily the best competitor I’ve ever seen during a trivia night.”

“Best and . . .”

“Prettiest,” I answer.

Her smile stretches from ear to ear. “Ooo, I should have recorded that. Sounded like music to my ears.”

Nichole and Banner left about twenty minutes ago. Thankfully, we thought to claim they went to the bathroom so we weren’t disqualified. Not sure what Myla would have done if we weren’t allowed to compete anymore, especially since we were so far ahead in points compared to the other teams.

“Care to get some ice cream with me—my treat—or do you have to go tuck yourself in?”

Technically, it’s way past my preferred bedtime. I don’t ever stay up past eleven, but here I am, sitting in a bar at eleven fifteen, thinking about getting ice cream.

“Is Cold Stone still open?” I ask.

She tucks her gift card in her cleavage and says, “Oh, you’re so cute, Bisley. You thought I was going to let you use my gift card?” She shakes her head. “No, that’s just for me. But there is a convenience store around the corner that sells Drumsticks, and I have a hankering for one.” She hops off her stool. “You game?”

I should really get back to my apartment, but this evening has been about having fun. Hell, she looks so fucking good, standing there in her black jeans and black tank top with her sweater tied around her waist. I don’t want to go “tuck myself in” just yet. I haven’t seen this girl in four years. Sure, I’ve been out with, dated, and fucked other women, but a small part of me has always wondered what would happen if I messaged her again. Every time she made a new drink post, I thought about commenting. I thought about asking her how she was or if she ever considered visiting Chicago, but I held back because she’s always seemed so aloof. Like a butterfly that could never be caught.